Air Raid
by girl in the glen
Summary: More trouble, always trouble...


Like a swarm they came after him, relentless and buzzing. The sight of German planes swathed in the insignia of Hitler's machine of destruction held Illya Kuryakin in a state of terror unlike anything he had ever experienced; not even during real events after which this was patterned.

"He is very much traumatized, it would seem, by the memories of his childhood. The devastation of his homeland is still a keen and difficult thing for this man." The remark was offhand, a verbal notation as he wrote more defining observations into the file on his desk.

"And what do you think might result from these, umm... night terrors, as it were?" Alexander Waverly knew a little something of trauma and war, as did so many of his agents. Only the Russian, however, had been subjected to not only the German atrocities, but had endured many from his own countrymen, in the name of the State of course.

"He is seeing devastation, experiencing some of his true memories regarding the war. Just the illustration he encountered seems to have triggered this relapse, I cannot say for certain that he will be capable of returning to the field if this is his reaction to a mere picture, not even a photograph."

Waverly weighed the opinion of the other man, a leader in the field of delayed stress on men who survived combat. The memories of a childhood filled with war and lack, that was another thing though, was it not?

"Please remember that Mr. Kuryakin was shot through and through with a myriad of THRUSH drugs, all intended to induce a psychotic episode if not death. He has survived such in the past, I do not see that..." Dr. Larmiere cut him off.

"This, Alexander, is a serious regression into Mr. Kuryakin's past. What I am attempting to tell you, in as kind a way as possible, is that he may not return from it." That caused Waverly to take a step back. It was unbelievable that, having survived his youth and both the Germans and Soviets, that Kuryakin should now be ruined because of yet another evil force on the earth. Neither Hitler nor Stalin had been able to keep this young man down, Alexander refused to believe that THRUSH were capable of doing so now.

"Keep him under observation and do try and bring him out of whatever is tormenting him. I expect you to do everything possible Henry, and I do mean everything. This man... Mr. Kuryakin must not remain in this mental prison."

"I shall do everything within my power, Alexander. Everything else..." Waverly nodded, understood the implication that it might require a miracle.

Napoleon Solo had not been allowed to see his partner, had kept his temper in check at the refusal to his requests. He knew Illya was in bad shape, he had seen him during the extraction as he thrashed and cried over the mural in Piermont's study. The man was the worst kind of THRUSH; brutal, vicious... he had purposely sent Illya into this mental prison where he remained a victim of war, of the Germans as they assaulted his country. The mural was of a burning Tower of London, but the drugs and suggestions had put Kuryakin in its midst, desperate to escape the flames and unable to free himself or the others he imagined were there.

Piermont was dead. The drugs were in the UNCLE labs now, an antidote desperately needed by the Russian agent whose wails and screams could be heard outside the doors of his room.

As Napoleon silently fumed over his inability to help he received a phone call. The receptionist couldn't say who it was on the other end, but her first words left no doubt.

"Darling, I didn't know."

Angelique. _Always Angelique_.

"I hope not, otherwise..."

"I know, _you'd have to kill me_."

Napoleon had to smile at that, he had threatened it, as had she. Their abnormal relationship defied everything they each stood for, their attraction something that should have been the plot of a bad spy novel.

"What do you know about it, the stuff they gave Illya? He's ... I don't think I can stand it if he doesn't come out of this." She clucked her tongue, an obvious attempt to lesson its importance.

"I know darling, I heard him. Piermont was an animal, not even THRUSH wanted him. But he was orderly and given to bouts of extreme obedience to the Hierarchy. He kept separate samples of his potions, including the one he gave to your dour little Russian."

"Angelique..." The tone was threatening. This was no time to make light of Illya or his flaws.

"Please Napoleon, bear with me. I have that little collection, and I am most willing to let you have it..."

"For a price?"

"N'est-ce pas darling, it is what we do, is it not." Not a question, merely an expectation.

"All right, what do you want in exchange for it?" Was there any limit in Napoleon's mind? Not at the moment; for now he'd agree to just about anything.

Alexander Waverly was intent on the man in the hospital bed. He was seemingly relaxed now, no longer tormented by the dreams and images of the past week. His other top man, The Top Man Napoleon Solo, sat by the bedside of his partner, all signs of having dealt with the enemy a mere afterthought to the results it had garnered.

As Waverly watched his agents, the one sleeping and the other guarding that sleep, he wondered what it was going to cost him to have them both back.


End file.
